


Barfight

by TreizeLoves



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M, Murder Husbands, Sherlock - Freeform, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreizeLoves/pseuds/TreizeLoves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teeny tiny cutesy bit about Jim and Seb meeting, with Jim being his usual over dramatic self and Seb being a tough but fun bartender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barfight

Jim was everything, save love and kindness, mixed into a dark swirling jar of misery and malice, hated hateful hatred and dark desires too long unquenched. Jim looked down upon the Earth as if it were a writhing peasant, begging mercy of him, its king. But Jim did not relent. Jim did not come to this sick, moldy rock to bring mercy he came to conquer, he came to rule he came to make the world beg--

"Well're ya gonna order something then??" A deep, irritably growling voice cracked into his thoughts like, like... well Jim had originally been thinking and earthquake but truthfully the voice was not demanding or empowered enough to deserve such explanation. More like a soft, unsettling tremor. Fucking ordinary people. Jim heard the deep sigh as the bartender started to turn. Jim decided to let his voice out in a smooth, sophisticated murmur.   
"Do you have a menu?"   
The bartender nodded and handed Jim a bit of cardstock, seeming almost put out by his request. Jim ignored his attitude and held the menu before his eyes, coolly pretending to read as he slowly let his thoughts encompass him again. He lowered the list a moment later, glancing at the clock. 8:10 pm. The target wasn't going to show. He sighed and started to slip off the stool before noticing the bartender was now enjoying a rather flamboyant red drink with a toothpick parasol and a lime slice perched on the edge of the glass. Jim eyed it, trying to deduce what exactly had happened considering he was the only one even sitting at the bar and this large, weathered man did not seem exactly the type to enjoy fruity cocktails.

"Oh, don't worry. I decided for you. Since you clearly never planned on ordering." For just a billionth of a second the bartender flashed Jim a sharp smile but it was gone, replaced by the weary dark gaze before Jim could even consider how it made him feel.

But Jim wasn't upset, no, rather he was delighted. He'd make this sorry fucker pay. He ought to be respected, he ought to be treated like the royalty he was so utterly convinced he was, he ought to take this cheeky bartender outside and slowly slice him just shallow enough to sting but just deep enough to leave scars, he ought to play the game. Oh, how he loved games.

"And what exactly did I buy you, dear?"

"Cherry limeade, with a shot of rum and six ounces of Lethal Concoction."

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Lethal Concoction, our trademark cocktail. Don't go asking, all trade secrets and shit the recipe is." The bartender flashed another lightening smile, jerking his chin to whip stray blonde curls out of his face.

"And how much did I pay for this Lethal Cherry Concoction, sweetheart?"

"Nearly twelve pounds, considering I mixed three different drinks." The end of his sentence cracked with a smile that didn't disappear this time, his eyes daring 'go ahead. Take me on. I love a good fight.'

"Aren't you a bit worried, wee sweetness? Seeing as I never fully agreed to this drink with you." Jim could hardly keep the corners of his mouth turned down now, something about this possibly drunken idiot seemed slightly infectious.

"Nah, if you get upset it's fine, I'm stronger than you."

"And if I call your boss?"

"I'm stronger than him too." But with this playful statement the man's smile grew wider, grew fierce. He was ready for a fight, fuck, he was dying for one and with this electric bubble soap energy that he was letting off Jim wanted one too.

"You seem awfully confident." Jim murmured, leaning forward to take a delicate sip from the green straw in the cherry concoction. He quite loved the way the bartender eyed him doing this, like it was oh, so much more than a sip it was an invitation, it was a plea. But it was also an incredibly smooth cover, hiding Jim's hands behind the bar while he texted his two burliest body guards.

"You don't think I can take you?" He smirked, his locks falling across his temple again as he leaned down to take his own sip, just inches from where Jim's face was hovering by the straw.

"No," Jim could hear the melody in his voice as he spun on the stool and hopped off. "I just don't think you can take them." He grinned his wicked grin as his perfect, ugly, hired thugs stepped through the doors, cracking their knuckles dramatically at the bartender.

He left the bar, still smiling as he heard the crack of the first punch connecting with the cocky bartenders jaw.

That was awfully fun wasn’t it.

Jim smiled to himself sweetly. That was fun like a dance, not the classy well practiced kind in ballrooms, no the bartender certainly wasn’t that kind of partner.

It was like the perfect thrown together kind on a makeshift dance floor in a crowded room, laughing and panting and going to the beat of the bass in the speakers, staying close enough to be kept in sync, forgetting the world and just swinging to the melody.  
Jim spun lazy circles towards his car, humming something old.  
The world _was_ disgusting and he _did_ need to rule it, but goodness, wasn’t it nice to just dance for a bit? To speculate and fight without reason or purpose, to be the anarchist he used to be.   
He closed his eyes, breathing in the chill and letting it out in a sigh.  
But only for a moment. Only one can be king. Anarchy is not productive like order.  
" **Oi!** " A shout pierced the air behind him, making him flinch just slightly.

"Hey! I said **oi**!!" This time it was less of a shout, more of a soft roar, accompanied by stompy footsteps scraping towards Jim's car.   
Jim turned with the grace of a queen and saw the goddamn cheeky bartender marching towards him, knuckles purple, spitting blood on the pavement.

"What?" Jim said, sounding annoyed to hide how impressed  he was.

"You didn't pay for your bloody drink!" The bartender hurled a red-stained glass that exploded on the concrete at Jim's feet.

 

 


End file.
